


The Only Exception

by geeky__chick



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geeky__chick/pseuds/geeky__chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has developed friendships over the years, even managed to marry off his best friend. He hasn't had the need for such entanglements himself and still doesn't. But when Olivia Connor swept into his life, that changed.</p><p>Now, on the eve he is to lose her forever, Sherlock looks back at six months of memory that will leave him devastated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

** Chapter One **

****

For some reason, he had not expected the flat at 221B Baker Street to be as he left it. It was only 12 hours since he was last inside, surely nothing aside from another of Moriarty’s bombs could have changed it so much in that small space of time. Still, when Sherlock Holmes allowed the door to his home to swing open, he was shocked by the _normalcy_ of it.

Immediately, he wished he hadn’t bothered to open the door. A shock of violet wool immediately caught his sharp gaze from where it was draped over the back of his chair. If he stepped closer, he knew the scarf would smell of jasmine and musk and mandarin oranges, the telltale scent of the owner of that article of clothing.

Why was it still there? The owner would never leave it.

“Sherlock.”

The tea tray still sat on the table beside his friend’s favourite chair, two cups placed haphazardly on the old wood. They both belonged to the married couple that frequented his flat, and no matter how he complained about the overabundance of company, they all knew it was for show. Sherlock got downright grumpy if more than two days went by without a visit from his friend.

Beside Sherlock’s chair sat another mug of cold tea. Across from that, the old, chipped cup that boasted a gaudy ‘God Save The Queen’ moniker held down a well-used sketchbook. As he stepped closer, he finally caught the fragrance on the air, though it was already fading. Sherlock had the brief, mad urge to find the bottle, spray the perfume in the room to bring it back. If the scent faded…

He dismissed the idea almost the moment he had it. The fragrance would only be a shade of what it usually was, without her inherent fragrance underneath.

 _Her_ …

Rage, thick and white-hot bubbled up from his belly. Sherlock turned to sweep the table with his hands, a cry that bordered on a growl breaking the utter stillness of the room. Glass shattered, papers fluttered, and the table fell onto its side with a wooden _thud_.

“Sherlock.”

He ignored her voice, knowing it would only make him feel worse. In his eyeline, unfortunately, lay his case wall. Papers and notes and all manner of things he used while working the long cases was pinned up so carefully. Sherlock attacked the wall with fervor, pulling at the papers so they ripped from the paint. The case had done nothing, it hadn’t been able to keep his mind on the matters at hand.

All of his gifts, all of his knowledge, and it did not save her. He had stood by, let it happen. How could he be so useless? The great Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, nothing more than a curious bystander when it all came to a head.

“Sherlock.”

The voice was more insistent this time.

“You’re not here.” Holmes growled in return. “You’re not here.”

“Sherlock.” The voice was alarmed. “Sherlock, my sketch.”

Without any more prodding, Sherlock turned. Under the broken porcelain that once held a British flag, lay a puddle of cold tea. It dripped onto the floor, the carpets, and stretched dark fingers over the sketchpad he had overturned with the table.

He scrambled over the wreckage to save it. Glass was moved away, the sketchpad lifted as Sherlock tried to whisk the old tea away. Though it was stained, the sketch remained as it had been that day. Mary and John Watson faithfully recreated on the chair he liked best, sipping tea and watching the scene before them. Sherlock was depicted in his own chair, holding little Hannah Watson on his lap as her sturdy little legs struggled to hold her chunky body up.

And on the arm of the settee, she had even sketched herself. Old t-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, charcoal in hand and sketchpad on her knee. It was a happy scene, Sherlock thought, a scene that he had experienced himself only this morning.

Had it only been this morning?

“Don’t go.”

He wasn’t aware of speaking, though the words seemed unnaturally loud in his ears. The sketch in his hand was laid on the settee.

“Look at me.”

“You’re not here.” Sherlock replied.

“Sherlock, neither are you.”

The realisation almost thrust Sherlock out of his mind palace. He had a glimpse of the hospital waiting room at Saint Bart’s, heard the distant wail of an ambulance siren, a scream of a name…

_Olivia!_

“Stay with me.” Her voice was low, soothing. “Stay with me, darling.”

When he was able, when he had confined himself back into his mind palace, Sherlock managed to raise his eyes. She was there, as he saw her in the sketch. Her tracksuit bottoms were worn with time, her damned **Sherlock LIVES** t-shirt covered her chest. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back from her face into a loose little bun; that well-featured face scrubbed of cosmetics. Here, there was no evidence of the accident that befell her only a few hours later.

No smears of blood, pale pallour to her skin, no glazed eyes. She was as he had awoken with her, fresh and clean and vibrant.

She was a lie.

Her lopsided mouth curved into a smile, at once understanding and kind.

“What happened, Sherlock?”

He was unaware of the emotion choking his throat until he had to gasp a breath to speak. “Car crash.”

Olivia’s blue eyes crinkled at the edges, a sign of concern. “Am I hurt?”

Immediately, his memory brought back the scan he had done when she was brought into the trauma ward. His eyes, one of his most celebrated features, gave him nothing but bad news.

“Broken tibia. Sprained wrist. Laceration to the head, heavy bleeding with concussion. Wound to the abdomen, likely to have cut into the liver. Internal bleeding. Blood type, AB positive, donors rare. You…”

“I won’t make it.”

Sherlock shook his head, feeling the acute pain of that realisation all over again.

“No.”

Olivia smiled again, her uneven smile returned as she stepped closer. Sherlock caught a hint of the jasmine of her perfume again, the scent bringing back the memory of her. Unable to help himself, he reached out to touch the ripe apple of her cheek.

“You’re saving me, then?” Olivia asked quietly, humour in her tone. “You’re going to remember everything about me, lock me in your mind palace so you won’t have to remember me when it’s over. You’re doing this because you know that in any moment, John will tell you that the doctors lost me.”

His hand was steady as he cupped her little cheek. She wasn’t real. This shade of a woman was not Olivia Connor. His mind, no matter how astute and well trained, could never replicate all of her flawed perfection, the mischief in those cool blue eyes, the understanding and humour of her smile. No. Sherlock, for all his great gifts, could never truly replicate Olivia to be truly real in his mind. She would be a ghost, a memory, nothing more.

“Don’t go.” He asked again, demanded.

“I won’t.” Olivia’s eyes shone with unshed tears. She knew how crying, showing emotions in this way made him uncomfortable. “I will always be here, in your memory of this moment.”

“Not good enough,” Sherlock argued. “You have to stay.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Olivia’s light laughter was tinged with emotion. Sherlock watched her face, standing close, to memorise this moment. “Do you really think you can change fate itself?”

“Why not?” He returned lightly. “I changed my own. I cheated death, then fought back from its brink all within the space of a few years. I can compel you to stay. We are in my mind palace, but I know you can hear me.”

Her bright eyes were alight with mischief once more. “Well, that’s hardly rational, Mr Holmes.”

“I’m allowed a momentary lapse.” The detective replied with a ghost of a smile lingering over his mouth. “Stay. You can hear me, Olivia. Fight back.”

“Cold, hard reason, Sherlock. That is your true love.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, reaching up with his free hand so he could cup her cherubic face with both hands. He rested his forehead against hers. “Stay with me. Olivia. Stay.”

She coughed. Bright red blood emerged from her lips. When he looked back down, he saw the blood blooming over her shirt. Bruising covered over her face, her arms. Sherlock recoiled slightly, aware that reality had now leaked into his mind palace.

_Sherlock!_

He ignored the familiar, far off call of his name. He knew who it was and what he would tell him. Sherlock could not face it, not yet. He bent all of his mental strength to erasing the blood, the wounds from Olivia’s shade. She stood still, blue eyes on his, until the colour of her honey-blonde hair was restored and that damned t-shirt was clean once more.

“I’m still here.”

“You’ll stay.” Sherlock demanded, almost rudely.

“I will. But you, my dear, must go.”

_Sherlock!_

The detective shook his head once. “It’s John. He’s going to tell me…”

Olivia’s cerulean gaze turned far away. “No. No, he isn’t. This isn’t about me.”

Sherlock nodded once. Olivia lifted herself onto the balls of her feet, shifting closer until she could press her lopsided mouth to his in that way that made his heart clench hard in his chest. Sherlock kept this moment in front of his eyes, knowing that he would have to lock it away, deep in his mind palace.

She wasn’t real. Not here. Remembering this forced him to feel the echo of a loss that had not yet occurred. He closed his eyes, allowing Olivia to adjust his fringe as she did when they were alone. It was a goodbye…

“Go to work, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

\--**--

 

**Six Months Ago**

 

He was working on a case when Lestrade came looking. In the lab at St Bart’s, Molly Hooper had given him a call regarding a few strange inconsistencies in an accidental drowning case. Molly, for some reason, seemed to be calmer when he was in the room as of late.

Sherlock deduced within moments that there was a man in her life, but he chose to keep it to himself. Well, the choice was made for him when John stood on his foot.

The second Lestrade entered, though, Sherlock put it all together easily.

A slight flush of Molly’s cheeks, a quick aversion of the eyes of Lestrade. Both pulses elevated. They remained on opposite sides of the room, addressed one another formally. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, yet again, but John interrupted.

“Accidental drowning.” The good doctor said almost jovially. “Brought on by a shellfish allergy.”

“Oh. Good. It’s not that.” Lestrade said quickly as he moved toward Sherlock behind the microscope. “We have another case. John, how’s the wife?”

“Good, good. Any day now.” John replied with the joviality of impending fatherhood.

“The case?” Sherlock interjected, thanking Molly quietly when she brought him a new batch of slides.

“Right.” Lestrade said a bit too quickly. Molly immediately scampered away. “We have a witness to a kidnapping in Southall. We have a sketch of the possibly suspect, but we were hoping you would take a look.”

“Victim?”

“Robin Sherrington, 34, single male of moderate income. No family.”

“Odd sort of kidnapping victim.” John tossed in as Sherlock continued to stare at the drowning victim’s samples. He had never seen anaphylaxis result in a drowning. The lung tissue was fascinating.

“The police received the ransom demands.”

At this, Sherlock looked up. “You have a witness to a kidnapping that was called into the police?”

Lestrade, relieved to have his attention now, nodded. “Welcome to the case, Sherlock.”

Just as the detective slid off of the stool behind the microscope, someone new breezed into the lab. Sherlock, out of sheer habit, did his customary scan of the newcomer before she had spoken a word.

_Early thirties, Artist judging from the coal stains on her hands and the parchment fibers on her clothes. Well fitted suit, contrasting colours, short heeled shoes. Concerned about looks, just shy of fussy. Hair pulled into a bun, functional for work, yet feminine. Dress style typical of a professional, woven bracelet around wrist is not. Laugh lines around the eyes and mouth, person of typically good humour. Shape of a keycard under her jacket, works for the police. A sketch artist. Scotland Yard._

The sound of a slow clap interrupted his thoughts.

“Well spotted. I hadn’t said a word.”

_Yorkshire accent, moved to London for work less than three years ago._

“Sherlock.”

At John’s voice, Sherlock realized he had done his deduction aloud, without bothering to think of anyone else’s reaction to it. The woman, for her part, looked faintly amused. Her mouth was categorically lopsided and when she smiled, it came off as more of a naughty smirk.

Why had he noticed that?

“Sherlock Holmes, Olivia Connor. She’s a special consultant to Scotland Yard.”

“And now there is no need to introduce myself.” Sherlock mentioned, moving to pull on his scarf and coat.

“Niceties are out of style again, I see.” The artist reached into the battered messenger bag strapped over her chest, removing a small file folded she handed to Lestrade. “I ran over on my way home. It’s the best I could do in a hurry. If you need more, let me know.”

“Thankyou, Liv.”

Sherlock noticed the small wince as he passed.

“She doesn’t like that, Lestrade. She prefers her given name.”

At Lestrade’s startled glance, Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “It is her name.”

“Right.” The Detective Inspector sighed. “Can we go now?”

Sherlock was already moving outside when he called back.

“Come on, John. He’ll want a moment alone with Molly.”

“Sherlock!”

No one saw him smirk on his way out of the lab.


	2. Cases and Babies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is called into a case. Baby Watson is born. Olivia makes her second introduction with disturbing news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a little more into the case that brought them together and the effect it's had on our favourite Consulting Detective.

** Chapter Two **

****

**Five months ago**

“Dead about four hours, judging from body temp. Parents were at work, eldest child at school, as per the usual. No marks of forced entry on front door, the kettle was still screaming when we came in.”

Sherlock was barely interested in Lestrade as he spoke, giving the specifics to a crime scene that he could have gathered within moments. Over the last eight years, though, he had learnt how to give Sherlock what he needed and less of what he didn’t.

Lestrade was one of the only officers who could boast such.

There was no blood, nothing to show a force of violence to the untrained eye. When one looked, closer, however, it was possible to see the blood-shot eyes and bruising around the throat. She was strangled quickly, quietly by a thin cord or rope. She died in the doorway, shoved to the side so the killer could close the door.

“And the infant is on a tight schedule?” Sherlock asked, inspecting the young woman’s body.

Well selected denims, a soft wool jumper, things that were easy to wash. Her hair was up in a ponytail, light makeup on her face. She wore no jewelry, nothing a small child could tug on or get into their mouth. A professional young woman, with clean fingernails and dedication to her work.

He could see into the kitchen from the doorway. A well-worn cup sat there, waiting. The milk was out, along with the sugar. It seemed everything was merely waiting to be used. Sherlock turned back to the matter at hand.

“Baby takes a nap at 10 o’clock every day.” Lestrade offered while John kneeled at the body.

“So, she puts the baby down as usual, goes to make her cuppa. All seems well. The doorbell rings. She turns to answer it, leaving the kettle on the stove. She isn’t expecting anyone and when she opens the door.”

The Consulting Detective turned toward the door, stepping over the body to stand on the outside step. “She opened the door cautiously, keeping her body mostly hidden behind it because she doesn’t know the man.”  


“Why?” asked Lestrade with his usual irritation. “And how do you know it’s a man?”

“Women are most likely to kidnap an infant, yes. It is also a fact that women are more likely to be victims of violence at the hands of a man. From the position of her body and the marks about her throat, she was cautious in opening the door which leans in the direction of a man being on the step.”

He gestured to John, nodding when his friend stepped up to the door, crouching behind it as the young woman might have.

“She used the door for cover, tried to be polite. He likely tried to gain entrance, to get away from any witnesses. Perhaps offering a delivery. Emily Knight refused, she’d worked for the Laurels for two years, she knows the delivery men, the routine of the household. From the monitor she kept on her belt, she was overprotective of the infant. She refused to allow him entrance, so he forced his way in.”

Sherlock moved toward John, who instinctively stepped exactly where Emily’s body lay. “A cord hidden in his sleeve, wrapped twice around the neck in a flash. She struggles, he overpowers her, lowers her to the floor. He kicks the door shut, there’s a smudge on the corner. Emily is dead as she hits the floor. With the door closed, the kidnapper has all the time in the world to continue.”

He moved the entire investigating team down the hall. As they passed one of the smaller bedrooms, Sherlock pointed into it.

“The five years old was at primary school, they didn’t want him. They waited until the parents were gone, and the elder child away. All they wanted was the infant.”

Sherlock followed Lestrade to the nursery, where a garish level of pink and chocolate brown greeted his eyes. Immediately, he noticed the changes in the room, though he had never been in it. There were no signs of a struggle, no indications that violence had befallen the child.

“They wanted her alive, unharmed. The kidnapper took the time to gather clothing, a blanket – wool from the fibres on Miss Knight’s clothes – and half of a box of nappies. They left with the child and well-supplied.”

Lestrade perked up from the doorway beside John. “Milk was also taken, from the fridge.”

Sherlock turned with delight rising on his face. From the look John shot him, it wasn’t the right reaction. He carefully schooled his features back to concern and interest, though Lestrade’s expression said he hadn’t quite nailed it.

“Breastmilk?” Sherlock frowned. “Why take breastmilk, why waste precious minutes? Formula can be bought at any corner shop.”

He turned, mulling the information over in his mind. Mary’s voice came rushing back _breast is best_. But how did that factor into a kidnapping?

“No ransom call, no note, no contact at all.” The detective looked up to his assistants. “Was the safety seat removed from the car?”

“Yes.” Donavan chimed in from behind Lestrade. “They took the keys from the counter and pulled the seat out.”

At this, several things clicked in Sherlock’s mind. He shook his head, meeting the concerned eyes of his friend. Impending fatherhood would make things such as this very nerve-wracking.

Still, Sherlock had a job to do.

“You’re not looking for a random kidnapping for money or revenge, Lestrade.” He stuffed his hands back into his pockets. “This is an adoption scam. Look into all of the recent adoption agreements, for a female infant between 3 and 6 months old. They might have tried to change her hair or cover birthmarks. You’ll be able to identify her by DNA as a best bet.”

John had already turned to leave the little house, pulling his mobile from his pocket. Sherlock remained behind, knowing he was checking in on Mary. Anything that had to do with children, at the moment, was difficult for the expectant father to digest. Sherlock was trying to be patient, but the entire thing seemed a little…ridiculous. No one was going to come near baby Watson.

Her mother was a trained assassin!

“How’s he doing?”

It was Donovan, whom had always seemed to have a soft spot for John Watson. Sherlock was, at first, inclined to ignore her. Still, when it was John, there was a furious need in Sherlock to defend him, no matter what.

“Fine. He’s fine.” Sherlock pulled on his gloves quickly. “Joyous and all that.”

“Keep an eye on him,” the sergeant continued. “He’s distracted.”

“Don’t you have some work to be doing, Donovan? Somewhere else, perhaps?”

She stomped away in a huff, leaving Sherlock to make his way toward the front door.

As he reached the step, he hailed a cab. John was just wrapping up his phone call. Trusting the whim, his knowledge of his friend, Sherlock held the cab door open for a moment.

Once he stepped it, with John following, Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

“34 Dunsten Street.”

He noticed John give him a smile, but chose to not return it.

“It’s been a few hours since you ate. At least we know Mary has food.”

John laughed, but said nothing.

 

~~**~~

 

Three days after the Emily Knight case, Sherlock was summoned to the hospital. He arrived promptly to greet his goddaughter, whom was given the name Hannah Rose Watson. Sherlock held the tiny newborn for a full three minutes, before she started wriggling. Fearing he might hurt the child, he handed her back to her mother, but continued to be charmed by her tiny face even from afar.

Hannah Watson was seven pounds of pink skin and blonde hair. Her blue eyes were grave, serious, and stared at Sherlock as though he held the answers to all of her questions. He had never been this close to an infant in his life and had always thought he would find them boring or irritating.

On the contrary, Sherlock found himself fascinated by her trusting eyes. She was delicate, but strong. It was safe to say that, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was in love.

There was a spring in his step when he reached Scotland Yard. Lestrade had something for him to look at and John asked if he would give their old friend his good news.

As he entered the Detective Inspector’s office, Sherlock greeted him jovially.

“It’s a girl.” The consultant said with a smile. “All present and correct. The Watsons are admiring their handiwork and expect gifts. Plenty of them.”

“Well, I was wondering when she’d finally get that kid out.” Lestrade laughed, standing to cross the room. It was not until Sherlock handed the other man his mobile phone to show him photographs that he realised they were not alone.

The blonde woman known as Olivia Connor was in the room.

She ignored him, though, moving to Lestrade’s side to peer over his shoulder at little Hannah Watson.

“She looks just like Mary,” Lestrade chuckled. “Don’t you think?”

“Good for her,” Olivia laughed. “John’s a bit on the masculine side.”

Sherlock offered a half smile. “She has John’s sense of timing. Interrupted dinner, from what I hear.”

“Isn’t that more of _your_ sense of timing, Sherlock?” Lestrade joked as he handed Olivia the phone. “They’re taking visitors, then?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock nodded in the affirmative. “Mary’s feeling well and John’s eager to show off.”

“Well, I’ll head down, then. Liv, why don’t you show that sketch to Sherlock?”

“Sure.” Olivia nodded. “Run off, give them my congrats, yeah?”

And with that, Lestrade was gone.

Olivia put a lock of hair behind her ear. It was down today, fragrant with the scent of coconut. She had on similar heels under a pressed skirt. Her blouse was vibrant blue, which matched her eyes. Sherlock stepped closer, catching the hint of jasmine and musk on the air. Perfume. _Jadore_.

“So,” the woman clapped her hands, turning to her messenger bag. “I have a sketch. There was a rather strange burglary last week, a pool was broken into. One of the night guards gave me the description.”

She handed him a large folder, obviously not noticing how Sherlock tensed. A pool. The last time he had been at an indoor pool was his first showdown with Jim Moriarty. The criminal had strapped explosives to John, then threatened to kill them both.

A ‘better’ offer called him off at the last minute.

When he opened the folder, Sherlock immediately closed it again.

“Mr Holmes?”

He ignored her for a moment, unsure of what he had seen. As he gathered his wits, Sherlock opened the file again.

It was _not_ Moriarty. The sketch was a true to life likeness, that much was obvious, and the man portrayed in it closely resembled the detective’s nemesis. There might have been a familial likeness, it was possible. Research on Moriarty was sketchy at best.

“It’s not him.” Sherlock told the other woman, capturing the image in his mind before he handed it back to her. “Could be a double.”

“Alright,” Olivia replied. She set the sketch on Lestrade’s desk, turning to put her bag over her shoulder. “No one knows that face better. Scared the hell out of Greg when I first showed it to him.”

Sherlock nodded, making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Why would someone who looked so much like Moriarty be at a pool? What was strange about the break in?

Olivia held her hands up. There were charcoal and ink stains on the fingertips. “I don’t know any details. I just do the sketching.”

Swallowing the panic, knowing he couldn’t ask John about this when he had just become a father, Sherlock decided he would immediately text Lestrade. If there was someone running about wanting to take Moriarty’s place, well, they would have to be discouraged. Immediately.

“Thankyou.” Sherlock told the woman as she passed him on her way out of the office.

Olivia turned to smile. Her lopsided mouth shouldn’t have been pleasing. No matter the smile, she always seemed to be smirking. Sherlock, however, found it charming. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t have spent the last few seconds staring at that smile.

“You’re welcome, Mr Holmes.”

Before she could get out of his eye line, Sherlock called out.

“Sherlock.”

Olivia leaned back into the office, that lopsided smile even wider.

“Sherlock, then. Goodnight.”

 

 

~~**~~

 

** Now **

 

When he opened his eyes, he felt the pain again. Being locked in his mind palace was different. The pain was there, obviously, but it was muted. He could still function through it, still think.

Here, in reality, it was different.

In reality, Olivia was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.

Sherlock looked up, meeting the eyes of his friend. John Watson looked a little worse for wear, unsure of what he was going to do. There were others in the waiting room. People from Scotland Yard, friends, colleagues. Sherlock didn’t bother with any of them.

All of his will, his thought, was to the hope that Olivia could defeat the odds.

“Sherlock?”

“What?” He snapped at John, hating that he was now in a place where he couldn’t talk to her. In the last months, while John was being a father, he always had Olivia to talk to.

“I know you’re upset. We need to step outside, though. You’re starting to scare people.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to take a look about.

“Because you’re talking to yourself, Sherlock.”

He huffed in disgust, shaking his head. “I don’t care. I am not leaving this seat until someone talks to me about Olivia. You’re a doctor. Go in there and get me data.”

“I can’t.” John shook his head.

“Why the hell not?”

John swallowed hard. “Because I don’t want to see her like that and neither should you.”

Taking his eyes from the gaze of his friend, Sherlock stared at the doors that led to the trauma rooms. He clasped his hands under his chin, staring at the doors.

 _Stay with me. Don’t go_.

He could only hope she heard him.


	3. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock recalls more of his relationship with Olivia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Serious fluff and serious angst ahead. Sorry!

**Five months ago**

No matter how many of his social flaws he pointed out, Sherlock was not allowed to stay at home during the function for Greg Lestrade. The detective inspector was being given an award, of some sort, which included a formal dinner held in his honour. Since he counted the Watsons and Sherlock among his friends, they were invited to come along.

Molly Hooper was also in attendance, though Sherlock knew that was more because they were keeping company than friendship.

Sherlock was powerless to resist Mary, so he donned his best suit and went out to ‘mingle’. Of course, this was his own personal hell. He had no one to talk with as John and Mary danced the night away. They’d not had a night out since before their daughter was born, so he could understand their excitement.

He had given Mary his promise to attend for a full 90 minutes. When minute 91 rolled around, Sherlock intended to be in a cab.

From his chair, Sherlock watched the dancers. He recalled telling Janine that he loved to dance, but alas, he had no partner. His ‘ex-fiancée’ sold their story to the papers, playing Sherlock to be some sort of lothario. Since that day, he’d had more than a few, very blunt, offers of sex.

Sherlock, however, was not interested.

There was a brunette at the next table that seemed to think she would give him a try. Sherlock had already worked out that John and Mary would not return in time to save him, so he would be forced to peel her off alone. Just as the woman downed her drink, as though to borrow courage, Sherlock’s phone chimed.

He pulled it from his pocket to read the text from an unknown number.

_I’ll be at your table in 15 seconds. Smile happily, invite me to sit, kiss my cheek. – OC_

Frowning, Sherlock raised his eyes in time to see the petite blonde artist coming toward him. A glance gave him a vision of emerald silk that clung to her body, a pair of sky-high heels, and hair tumbling over slender shoulder in honey-hued waves. Her lips were painted an inviting sheen of pink and her smile was infectious.

Following instructions out of pure curiosity, Sherlock sat back with a grin.

“There you are!” He greeted as she leaned over the table to kiss his cheek. “I saved you a seat.”

“Thankyou,” Olivia murmured. Sherlock caught a whiff of her jasmine-inspired perfume, felt his insides squirm pleasantly. She took the seat eagerly, turning her body toward his. Sherlock, in keeping with the façade, put his arm over the back of her chair as a signal of possessiveness.

“What is this about?” The detective asked, dropping his tone so they wouldn’t be overheard.

Olivia’s blue eyes were alight with mischief.

“I saw Mrs Cumberland looking over. She’s a notorious harlot with a jealous husband, I thought I would spare you the drama.”

Sherlock smiled genuinely. “Well done. You’ve rescued me.”

He swiped two glasses of the ridiculously cheap champagne from a roaming waiter, handing one to the other woman. They sat together intimately, so that anyone from the outside looking in would see a romantic couple locked in a private moment.

In reality, Olivia was almost uncontrollably giggling.

“She’s going to be so pissed off. I heard her in the loo, talking about how she was going to have a time at Baker Street tonight.” Olivia’s lopsided mouth quirked into that devastating grin. “And now all of her cronies have seen me slide up to you like we’re lovers. Ah, revenge is sweet.”

At this, Sherlock arched a brow in his new companion’s direction. “Revenge is it? I feel so used.”

Olivia shrugged one bare shoulder, her porcelain skin glowing in the light. “She accused me of trying to sleep with her troglodyte of a husband some time ago. Didn’t believe me when I told her I wasn’t interested in sex. With anyone.”

Surprised by the admission, Sherlock merely stared at the woman. Olivia laughed lightly, polishing off her champagne.

“Come on, Sherlock. I know I’m not the only asexual human at this table.” She crossed her eyes, setting the glass down. “I know the signs. I thought it might be nice for you to have some time with a woman who isn’t trying to get you out of your pants.”

Stunned, Sherlock drained his glass. He had never spoken of his sexuality aloud. It was something he tucked away, rather like Mycroft’s homosexuality. They never spoke of it, though Mycroft liked to tease Sherlock about his lack of a sex life.

The truth was, Sherlock did not see much of a point to sex. It was messy, distracting, and caused havoc for no reason. He had done it, of course. At university, he gave both sexes a try. Though he preferred the company of a woman for those types of escapades, he did not experience sexual arousal the way others did. After extensive research, Sherlock found that he was not abnormal. His lack of sexual appetite even had a name.

And it appeared that he had just met someone with a similar sexual orientation.

“Welcome back.” Olivia’s lopsided smile had softened when Sherlock focused on her once more. “I didn’t mean to drop that on you. I thought you might have noticed, the way I noticed it in you.”

“How did you?” Sherlock asked. “We’ve spent a total of 7 minutes in one another’s company.”

Olivia tilted her head. “Well, when you deduced me, it was without a lingering look at my breasts or hips. You seem to like my mouth, but you weren’t imagining me doing things with it. And then there’s the tabs reporting on your insatiable appetite. In my experience, that comes from a man or woman who wanted sex, but did not get it. She was upset about a lack of orgasms, wasn’t she?”

Unable to help himself, Sherlock offered a small smile. “She did not understand.”

Olivia grinned. “Well, I do. So, why don’t you take me for a spin, since you know I’ll keep my hands honest?”

He contemplated this for only a moment. Sherlock stood with a flourish, buttoning his jacket before holding out a hand to his green-draped companion. Olivia’s smile bloomed even more fully as she threaded their fingers together, moving against him eagerly.

 

~~**~~

**Three Months Ago**

She was sketching him.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted to the window of Lestrade’s office as his forensics team went over something they thought was key to their most recent murder case. He wasn’t paying attention to them because they were wrong. He would point that out, soon, but there was something more intriguing going on outside of Lestrade’s office.

Her text after their broken dinner date was simple: _I’ve been called in. Hi._

He’d glanced out of the window to see her lopsided smile, her cheeky little wave. Sherlock held back his grin at seeing her, still dressed for their date. After the greeting, she vanished for a bit while Sherlock continued to work the case.

It was only when they returned from Bart’s that he caught sight of her again. She’d perched on the desk top of an empty cubicle – Olivia seemed to be affronted by chairs for she was always sitting on counters and tables – her sketchbook in hand. Sherlock deduced after a moment that she was sketching his face. Her eyes raised every 5 to 7 seconds, always focusing on a different point of his face.

He would have to take a look when he got out of Lestrade’s office.

John coughed slightly to get Sherlock’s attention. From the glance he took around the office, no one else had seen his distraction. John did, but then, John knew what was going on with Sherlock and Olivia. Nine dinner dates, only three interrupted by work, five run-ins for coffee and several days’ worth of texting…Sherlock was in the first functioning relationship of his life.

And because their views on sex were similar, he didn’t feel any of the underlying pressure he usually did. Everything was simple with Olivia.

“Lestrade wants us to take a look at the crime scene.” John said quietly.

Sherlock nodded, pulling on his coat. When the others stepped into the hall, heading for the lifts, Sherlock broke away from the pack. There were only a few detectives and such milling about, so he eased up to where Olivia was sitting. The woman demurely set her sketchpad aside, shifting so that it was caught under her hip.

As she lifted her face, that lopsided smile bloomed. The apples of her cheeks turned rosy and as he neared, he could see the delight dancing in those sky-hued eyes.

“Hello.” Olivia teased as he stopped in front of her, fixing his scarf.

“Let me see.”

Olivia coyly dropped her eyes, leaning her weight on one hand so Sherlock was forced to reach for the sketch. He did so without changing expression, taking up the sketchpad from under the curve of her backside. Olivia’s teasing smile was still dancing in his head as he opened the book to find her sketch of him.

It was a realistic drawing. Sherlock looked out from the profile she had rendered onto the page, his eyes clouded with thought. His scarf and coat were faithfully represented, along with the mass of curl that was his hair. There was something touching in the sketch, as though he could sense Olivia’s mood through it.

“Very nice.” He commented lightly. “But my nose is too big.”

“No, it’s not.” Came the chuckled reply. “Stop trying to find fault and tell me I’m brilliant.”

Unable to help himself, Sherlock set down the sketchpad before lifting her chin with one knuckle.

“You’re brilliant.” He whispered before dropping a chaste kiss onto her lips.

Olivia hummed with pleasure, but did not attempt to make the kiss last any longer.

“People will talk.” The woman warned lightly.

“Let them.” Sherlock replied, tapping the sharp end of her nose. “Baker Street. I will be late, but Mrs Hudson will let you in.”

Those clear blue eyes lit with pleasure. Sherlock felt his insides go momentarily mushy. That was…oddly pleasant. He only hoped he could stifle the feeling before he had to go to work.

“Shall I bring my jamas?” Her blonde brows wriggled suggestively. Sherlock rolled his eyes, though his smile remained as he caressed the ample swell of her cheek.

“Yes, you shall. See you later.”

He dropped another quick kiss onto that lopsided mouth before turning away. Excited twittering broke out in his wake, but Sherlock did not look back. Olivia did not play games and she would not speak to anyone about their relationship. If she was pressed, she might only say a simple “I am happy” before dropping the subject.

As he strode into the waiting lift Sherlock glanced at his friends. Lestrade handed John a five pound note, not bothering to hide it.

“Damn it.”

Sherlock smirked. “You should never bet against John Watson when it is in regards to me, Lestrade.”

“I didn’t,” the detective inspector said lightly. “I bet him you wouldn’t go public with this one. The last time you had a girlfriend, you ended up all over the gossip rags.”

“Yes, but this one is different,” Sherlock answered honestly.

As the lift doors slid shut, John smirked to himself.

“There is always one exception.”

 

~~**~~

 

**Now**

 

“You can go in now.”

Sherlock stepped into the hospital room silently, leaving the others in the waiting room. The doctors came out to tell him that it was hopeless. The blood loss, the head trauma, it was all too much for Olivia’s tiny body.

When he saw her, lying there on the bed, with tubes breathing for her and blood dripping into the bag, Sherlock did not want to believe it. He stood at the door for a long moment, simply staring at the lifeless body that was the woman he adored.

It took at least a few moments before he noticed her hand. It was the only thing he could recognise on the bed. Long fingers with manicured nails, a sheen of clear polish. There was, miraculously, a little smudge of charcoal on her thumb, from mussing a line in one of her drawings.

Sherlock all but fell into the chair beside the bed, taking that dainty, delicate hand in his. He pulled the chilled flesh to his lips, kissing the little bumpy ridge of her knuckles.

Tears splashed down his front without him being aware that he was shedding them. Sherlock held on to the little limp hand as though he could tether her to reality, as though she would wake if he held her a little more tightly.

Monitors at the side of her bed told the real story. The only life left in her was given at the mercy of the machines that forced her heart to beat and her lungs to breathe. Olivia was dying. There was nothing that Sherlock could do to stop it.

“Please.” The word left his lips without bothering for permission. “Please, Olivia. Stay.”

She did not move. Only the beep of monitors and the whoosh of the machine breathing answered his words.

“Don’t go.” Sherlock begged. He reached up with his free hand, sliding a bloodied lock of blonde from her forehead so he could touch her skin. “I love you. Please, please don’t leave me.”

Beep. Beep. Whoosh. Beep. Beep. Whoosh.

Sherlock covered her tiny little hand with both of his, leaning forward so his elbows rested on the bed beside her still body.

Beep. Beep. Whoosh. Beep. Beep. Whoosh.

The detective closed his eyes, thinking of her lopsided smile.

Beep. Beep. Whoosh. Beep. Beep.

“Olivia. Please.”


	4. The Game Is On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock says goodbye to Olivia.

**Three Days Ago**

 

Sherlock stepped into the flat, unwinding his scarf from his throat eagerly. The case was solved, finally. A string of murders left London in the throes of a panic, but it was nothing too much for the world’s only consulting detective.

Satisfied with himself no matter how dramatic the ending to the case had been, Sherlock hung his coat before taking a quick glance about his flat. All over, there was evidence that he no longer lived alone, in the strict sense of the word. A scarf here, a notebook there, the teacup he despised that she kept because he despised it.

“Olivia?”

“Kitchen.”

Hearing her voice, Sherlock stepped into the brightly illuminated space, finding the object of his affection bent at the waist, half inside of his refrigerator. Sherlock paused for a moment to watch her, rolling his eyes when he realised the ratty shirt on top of her old tracksuit bottoms was the Sherlock LIVES t-shirt he hated.

_It was a gift from Anderson. I’ll wear it if I like._

He hadn’t had the heart to toss it out, no matter how often he threatened.

“Long day?” The detective asked, ignoring the pile of post she had stacked neatly on the counter for him. If there was anything of any importance in the stack, she would let him know.

“Not too bad.” Olivia pulled her blonde head out of the fridge with a carrot clenched between her teeth. That lopsided mouth managed to curve into a smirk, even around her vegetable treat. “And you? Solved it, I gather, since you’re home.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock agreed, distracted by the open sketchpad on the table.

She’d been working on what looked like a fairly accurate rendering of the calf brain he had in the refrigerator.  It wasn’t uncommon for Olivia to come over, let herself in, and then sketch the things he had hidden in the kitchen. She’d done a relatively excellent image of a cancerous lung not long ago, one that Sherlock had kept for himself.

“Oh, we’re brooding.” Olivia commented when she took the carrot out of her mouth. “Shall I press or ignore? I can do either.”

She slid up to him, their fronts almost brushing as she did so. Sherlock had learnt a great deal about this woman in the last months. In turn, he had allowed for a crack in his armour, showing the artist what he was like without the walls he had built long ago.

Because she had learnt things, Sherlock knew she would not touch him unless she was invited to. They may have felt similarly in regards to sexual intercourse, but Sherlock found that both he and Olivia tended to be tactile. Simple, innocent embraces or the running of his fingertips over her skin brought a wealth of comfort, a level of intimacy he had not before experienced.

Having spent the last four days in sparse contact with the woman he cared for – though even thinking those words was grounds for having his head examined – Sherlock reached out. He caught a small tear in her old, beloved t-shirt with a fingertip, tugging her a little closer. As though grateful for the invitation, Olivia lifted her diminutive frame onto the balls of her feet, which allowed Sherlock to drop a chaste kiss onto her trademark smirk.

“Forgive me.”

Confusion crossed that face with a furrow of the brow, a tightening around her eyes. “What for?”

Struggling with articulating what he was feeling, Sherlock took several seconds before he replied. Olivia gave him the time, her patience with him seemed almost endless. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why it was so easy for her to wait him out, to let him gather his thoughts. That, he thought, was something about her that would never be replaced.

“I was caught up in my work. I feel I have neglected you.”

Olivia stared for a moment. “Are you feeling alright?”

Sherlock scowled.

“I mean, you’re acting a little strange, love.”

After a beat of silence, recalling the sound of the bullet as it whizzed by his head with inches to spare, Sherlock exhaled softly.

“I love you.”

If he thought nothing could phase the woman he adored, Sherlock was proved wrong in that moment. Her hands gripped his shoulders as though to keep her balance, those sky-blue eyes dilated so that her irises were almost impossible to distinguish. By the way her pulse point jumped so that it was visible in her throat, he knew her heartrate had elevated sharply.

Sherlock had never said those words to someone, he had never felt the need to do so. But now, in this moment, telling Olivia the truth mattered above everything else.

“You love me?” Olivia whispered, her tone filled with wonder.

Sherlock nodded once, with finality.

The woman looked up at him with those blue eyes, making his insides feel warm in a way that was unusual but not exactly unpleasant. He had become used to feelings such as this in the company of this artist. She did things to him that he would never be able to express.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Hearing her repeat his sentiment made the world’s only consulting detective grin. He smiled at her, at the honesty in those words, the affection and warmth shining in her eyes. Sherlock had always felt that sentiment was tantamount to nothing but human error. Allowing someone inside was giving them ammunition to hurt you. Love equaled no more than a set of chemical balances in the brain, giving one the feeling of security and warmth.

Right now, Sherlock found that he did not care. Chemistry could be responsible for the last few months with Olivia Connor, of course. The way she made him feel, however, was too good to be ignored.

Olivia kissed his lips again before she burrowed into his arms. They remained that way for several minutes, content with one another and everything they declared.

When it was time to part, Olivia announced that he needed to eat. Sherlock agreed and settled at the table to watch her cook.

~**~

 

**Now**

 

Sherlock stepped into the room again, now that the others had gone. It was three days since the accident, three days since pure chance took her away. Sherlock settled back at her side, his hand immediately reaching out for hers. There were unshed tears in his eyes, things he had never told her tickling the back of his tongue, begging to be voiced.

Would any of it matter?

He recalled that moment he knew everything was lost. Stood outside of the restaurant with Mary and John Watson, chatting softly as they awaited the last of their party. Hannah lay in her pram, napping as only a small child could. Sherlock was looking at Hannah when John called out Olivia’s name.

_“There she is. Late, as usual.”_

They all raised their hands in greeting as Olivia stopped at the pavement, waiting for a few cars to move by. She was wearing the green dress he liked, with those ridiculous heels he couldn’t understand how anyone walked in them. And Olivia decided she was going to jog in those silly things.

He saw it happen for the thousandth time in his head. The car swerved, going too fast. Sherlock stepped away from his friends, screaming her name in a warning. Olivia turned in time to see the white BMW hit her head on.

When Sherlock closed his eyes, he saw himself running toward her broken body on the pavement as Mary frantically called for an ambulance. John was there, trying to stop the worst of the bleeding as Olivia reached for Sherlock’s hand.

She said nothing, he remembered. She only smiled softly, even through her pain, to soothe him.

The last three days were his personal hell.

At least now he knew what was going to happen.

Lifting her hand to his lips, Sherlock kissed the artists’ callouses on her fingertips. Emotion was a tight, uncomfortable ball in his throat. Just outside of the door, he could hear the quiet sobbing of her family. They had made this decision, one that Sherlock hated them for. Oh, he knew it was scientifically the right call. She was gone, there was nothing anyone could do about that. The seizures that were brought on by her injuries had destroyed her higher brain function. All that remained was the shell that once held Olivia Connor.

So, why couldn’t he leave her?

“They told me to say goodbye.” Sherlock whispered. “I know you can’t hear me, you’re not here any longer. Sentiment, that’s all this is. I suppose I hope the remaining synapses in what is left of your brain might give me that crooked smile, just once more.”

Sherlock sniffled, astonished to find there were tears sliding down his front. He pressed her much smaller hand between his palms, inhaling a shaky breath. He would never see her again. She would never be there on his kitchen table, sketching brains and taunting him with that Sherlock LIVES shirt. There was no more Olivia Connor in his life.

“I will miss you, Olivia.” Sherlock whispered before indicating to his temple. “I will keep you here.”

Unable to help himself, Sherlock continued to speak in a low tone meant for her alone.

“I will miss my friend.” The detective took another breath, words punching their way from his lips with force. “I will miss that lopsided smile, and your ridiculous shoes. How am I to…”

Choking on his own breath, Sherlock shook his head. “I love you.”

Minutes later, the doctors came into the room, along with her family. John was there, his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock himself did not move. He was staring at Olivia’s face when they removed the tubes that helped her breathe. His hand clung to hers when the IVs were removed, and the leads monitoring her vitals peeled from her skin.

Sherlock found himself with soaked cheeks as the monitors wailed. He need not look up, to see the flat, continuous line that was Olivia’s lack of a heartbeat. There was nothing he could do as the doctor pronounced her time of death. Sherlock made sure he had his eyes on only Olivia’s face as the last of her life slipped away.

There seemed to be no pain. No suffering would have done for her, not after she had been through so much. Sherlock heard her mother begin to cry, her brother soothing the old woman. Still, he stared at that lovely face, unable to tear his eyes away as her chest failed to rise again.

Knowing it was over, Sherlock buried his face in his hands. John’s grip on his shoulder was almost painful, but neither of them mentioned it.

When he was ready, Sherlock stood with no acknowledgement of anyone else. He leaned over the body of his lover, kissing her ashen cheeks.

“Goodbye.”

Making eye contact with no one, Sherlock moved away from the bed and strode out of the room.

 

~**~

“How is he?”

It was Molly Hooper who asked John the one question he had been dreading. In the four weeks since the accident that killed his girlfriend, asking about Sherlock’s wellbeing. Lestrade had even suggested putting the other man on suicide watch, but John insisted that wasn’t necessary.

Truth be told, Sherlock seemed to be handling things well. Olivia’s possessions were boxed up with ruthless efficiency, save for a few things he kept for himself. When John delivered the box to her mother, he delicately told the woman that Sherlock kept that damned teacup, her old Sherlock LIVES tshirt and the sketchpads. Fiona Connor insisted that was fine, told John to offer Sherlock her thanks.

He never said her name. For John that was the worst of it. Oh, he would talk about her if pressed, but it was in short sentences and without the use of her given name. Still, Sherlock worked. He ate and slept as he was wont. Sherlock was behaving in a very Sherlock way.

Or so John was going to keep it.

“He’s fine.” The doctor told his old friend, trying to soothe her worry. “He just needs time. She was…she meant a lot to him.”

Molly’s face – which for some reason always reminded him of a pixie – was sullen and sad.

“I just wish there was something we could do for him.”

“We’re doing it.” John indicated to the file on the table with a small smile. “We have a case.”

~**~

Standing at the grave marked with her name, Sherlock stared.

Her mother had chosen well, he thought, with the polished granite. Thin ribbons of flowers framed the name of the woman buried here: Olivia Jane Connor. Beneath her name were the dates of her birth and death. It was simple, tasteful, and Sherlock thought she would have appreciated the understated monument erected in her name.

In the last weeks, he came here every day. Sherlock could not explain why he felt the keen need to visit the grave of the woman he loved at every sunset, but he couldn’t resist the impulse. He knew that John knew what he was doing, even if he hadn’t tried to get the detective to take a ‘real’ case since her death. Still, it was an odd ritual, even for Sherlock.

He did not speak. There was no need. If Sherlock wanted to speak with her, there was a room in his mind palace dedicated to the woman he had loved. Perhaps he just wanted to be near her, near the place where she would rest for eternity.

“Sherlock?”

Turning slightly, he nodded a greeting at his best friend before looking back at Olivia’s headstone. He _missed_ her. That silly smile, those blue eyes, the way she always had some sort of witty comeback. In the months she was in his life, Sherlock did not think he had ever been bored. That was a feat, for someone like him. How could someone so tiny have had such a huge presence in his life?

_Oh, shut up_. He almost heard her voice, could see her rolling those eyes. _Why don’t you stop moping and get back to work?_

“We have a case, if you’re interested. A double murder in Brixton, looks like it might have been professionals.” John said cautiously. "Are you interested?"

Sherlock smiled at the gravestone, sniffled in the cold, and turned to his friend.

“I think that means, the game is on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so proud of this little fic. I know it wasn't much, but I had a lot of fun (and feels) writing Sherlock and Olivia. Thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fanfic and it won't be overly long but I'm excited to explore Asexual Sherlock!
> 
> Updates, hopefully, weekly!


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